


7 Shots

by m4xw3ll



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: CW gunshot wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 15:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18594562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m4xw3ll/pseuds/m4xw3ll
Summary: "The shopkeeper is a Templar."Shaun looked at Desmond as if he was nuts. Which, all things considered, wasn't the best but definitely the most possible conclusion he should have come to a long time ago.Shaun and Desmond need to fight some templars on their way from safehouse to safehouse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this quite a few years ago, but decided to upload it now. My English wasn't as good back then as it is now, but I hope you still enjoy it!

"The shopkeeper is a Templar."

Shaun looked at Desmond as if he was nuts. Which, all things considered, wasn't the best but definitely the most possible conclusion he should have come to a long time ago. Still, all he could manage was a raised eyebrow and a, "What?"

They hurried down a road in the rain back to one of their safehouses in the city and all Shaun could say – nothing about the rain, about their supplies getting wet and the wine they got for Rebecca in said little shop – was that stupid little word and the thought that Desmond hopefully had gone insane. They had better chances dealing with the bleeding effect than with a city full of Templars at their doorstep. And Rebecca had thought that it would be a good idea for Desmond that, hood up and rain keeping people from the streets, he could go out for once. Why the hell did Lucy agree in the first place?

"Tested my eagle vision," Desmond explained after a few seconds in the same hushed voice he had spoken to Shaun before. "To see if it can, uh – break, y'know. But he … he flashed red and oh God – get out of here, Shaun. Now." The assassin-in-training stopped short and gave Shaun the brown paper bag with their supplies, looking at a street corner and tensing up.

"No," the historian replied on the spot. He was trained, after all, and Desmond definitely didn't know how to deal with Abstergo's people properly. Not the way the rest of them did. "How many?"

"About six or seven, I think. Hard to make out," Desmond told him, not moving when Shaun grabbed his arm and tugged at it to get him moving into an alleyway and rather stared at the street corner. "Go, Shaun. Me – they want me alive. But they would kill you. Get back to the others."

And for a brief moment, the historian asked himself if he had really heard something like fear or worry in Desmond's voice. But for him, it was crystal clear that he definitely would never leave a teammate, much less a novice alone to fight half a dozen Templars. 

Desmond looked like he wanted to protest, but then it was too late and six people came around the corner. The street was deserted and Shaun couldn't make out their faces. But he knew from the way they moved that they had weapons inside their jackets, much more present ones in their hands, and two already up and pointing at Shaun. His glasses were blurred by raindrops, but he saw well enough to look for a cover and be out of reach before they started shooting.

Desmond had his hidden blade out in about a second and the historian set the supplies aside and drew out his own gun, an unregistered SIG Sauer 226. Not his favourite choice of weapon, but it had to do since they had only one blade. Less blood to clean up afterwards, too. Desmond moved in his general direction and if he wondered that the bad guys didn't first announce their plans, he didn't show it.

It was all pretty quick and blurry after that; they shot at each other, Shaun crouched behind some trash bins and the Templars behind a white car and the street corner, while Desmond jumped on a roof and was out of sight. A few seconds later, Shaun heard one of the Templars behind the corner scream and then gurgle, the other one stumble in range and the historian got a clear shot at his torso. Blood seeped through his clothes and onto the cobblestone and then Shaun was shooting at the men behind the car again.

Suddenly, there was Desmond right behind him and when the historian turned around, he saw that a Templar had managed to follow and almost get his teammate. "Down!" Shaun warned, pointed his gun at Desmond's back and as soon as the man did what he was told, the Templar had a hole in his chest. Shaun really wanted to rub his glasses dry, because his sight got even worse, but there wasn't time and in the next second, just when he turned around again, he had other things to worry about.

Desmond practically threw himself in front of him and the historian saw one of the remaining Templars withdraw his weapon, the other two already shooting. Desmond fell, screamed and then he was lying on the street and bleeding. Shaun grabbed him by the shoulder and and pulled him behind the trash bins just when he heard one of the other men say, "shit, bossman's gonna be so pissed".

Shaun didn't care; hell, he was probably even more pissed than their boss, especially when he saw the blood on Desmond's leg and side. For a total of two seconds, Shaun had to decide which wound was worse and then pulled off his vest to press it on the other man's side, right under the last rib. "Keep pressure to the wound," Shaun grabbed his gun again and gave a warning shot in the general direction of the car, "take off your belt and fixate it above your leg," and then he shot once more, not really caring if he hit as the magazine was empty anyway and he grabbed Desmond's hidden blade to put it on. "Stay safe." Then he pulled out a spare magazine and made his way to the roof of the building next to him.

It was better after that. When Shaun had had to hide the van in this city, he had taken his time to get to know the streets, pulled up a map for an escape route and another safehouse on their way and all things considered, he knew his way around even without being able to see properly. He just hoped Desmond was safe.

Shaun didn't like killing; he hated it, but like he told Desmond at the warehouse, he expected to do it again. He shot one of the men from a rooftop, jumped down to ram the blade through another's neck and had a brief fist fight with the last of them, who had almost reached Desmond. But then they were dead and Shaun knew they had to get out of here. And fast.

The historian looked around while he pulled Desmond up as best as he could, one arm around his middle and his hand pressed to the vest over the wound, the other one activating his earpiece and then on the other man's chest to keep him up. "Lucy, Templars found us," he informed her as soon as he heard the earpiece click to life. "We're going dark, back in two to three." He briefly considered telling her that Desmond had been shot. She wouldn't blow their cover, never, but she would worry too much.

"Shaun?" he heard Desmond's voice, strained with pain and slurred, probably from the blood loss. He couldn't walk properly but still managed to look up at him and then stumble a little more.

"Shut up," the historian hushed him. "Walk. It's not far."

"Where …" the other man tried to ask, but coughed and dragged his wounded leg behind him as Shaun directed him through the alleyways.

"I want to get back eventually, and I want to do so in one piece," the historian snarled at him, always looking around for other enemies, "so you shut up and only tell me if there's another Templar nearby. Got that?"

Desmond grumbled elusively and Shaun took that as a confirmation.

The other man was quiet for the rest of the way until Shaun found them a small, empty house at the end of a closed down industrial estate. It was crouched between two other, bigger houses and the basement was cold and empty, but it had to do. After all, it had been a safe house once and it should be still stocked with basic things in case they had to pull it up again. "No lights," Shaun declared once he sat Desmond down in a corner, cleansed the wound at the rib with his soaked sleeve and tied the belt properly around his upper leg before he went up again, looking for a blanket and a medic kit.

The adrenaline wore off slowly and now all there was left to him was fear. Not for himself; it looked like they were safe for now, until they found the bodies that was, but Desmond was downstairs and bleeding and probably had two bullets in his body. They had to get them out. Desmond had to live. Oh, this was bad.

When Shaun came back, Desmond's breath was shallow and he looked pale. Even more so when the historian put a blanket in front of the basement's window and flicked on one of the torches Then he finally got the chance to rub his glasses dry on said blanket before returning to Desmond's side. He wasn't a medic, but he had had to deal with this sort of thing before, one time on the receiving end, so he knew what to do. Try to walk into a hospital with a bullet wound and not get it reported, good luck.

"Sorry 'bout your vest," Desmond mumbled and when the historian looked up, he saw the other man watching him through heavy-lidded eyes.

"You should worry more about what Rebecca will do to you when she finds out what happened to her wine," Shaun told him as calmly as possible, but he was pretty sure Desmond got the slightly panicked edge in his voice. And even if not, Shaun's hands trembled every now and then and he had to take a deep breath before pulling up Desmond's hoodie and t-shirt. Oh, that looked bad. Really bad.

"Not appropriate, Shaun." Desmond breathed in sharply as Shaun cleansed the wound as best as he could.

"Sod you," Shaun retorted and grumbled, looking for tweezers in the medic kit. There wasn't a hole in Desmond's back, which meant that the bullet had to be in there somewhere. "You just had to get shot, didn't you? That was my bullet, you bloody twat." He couldn't help but react with anger to his fear and he wasn't even sorry. Still, he pulled out some painkillers from the medic kit along with a bottle of water and helped Desmond swallow both.

Desmond snorted quietly. "You'd be dead without me."

"I wouldn't be here in the first place if it wasn't for your sorry arse." Shaun pulled at the belt once more just to shut Desmond up for good.

It wasn't nice to get the bullet out. Really, that was one of the things Shaun could do without in his life; it was hard enough to stick tweezers in that sodding bullet hole and pick around for something he couldn't even make out properly in the torch light, but Desmond winced and moaned in pain and Shaun considered knocking him out. But he feared that the novice wouldn't wake up again, his breath already too shallow and the fingers which touched his arm to remove him from the wound already too cold.

"Let me work, Miles," Shaun growled at him and swatted his fingers away.

It was better after that. Desmond didn't say anything, didn't move any more and only hissed in pain and cried out once more when the bullet came to light. Then he was about to pass out. Well, nothing a slap in the face couldn't fix. The leg wound wasn't that bad; the bullet had only grazed him. Which, all things considered, Desmond could feel lucky about. Shaun too, because he surely wasn't eager to stick tweezers in the other man's body twice. He bandaged both wounds as best as he could, which wasn't that bad at all, but still – he felt like it just wasn't enough. Then the historian slumped down against the wall next to Desmond, urged the man to lie on his back and took a deep breath, holding up the bullet and examining it in the dim torch light.

The historian briefly wondered what he would have done if Desmond had died on that street. He wasn't out of the woods yet, but Shaun was pretty sure he had done a decent enough job that he would be in a couple of hours. His hoodie was open and t-shirt was up showing his stomach and chest, let alone the jeans pulled down to the knees, but as much as Shaun had wanted to see that for some time now, it would be so wrong in so many different ways right now he didn't even bother counting.

Instead he helped Desmond get dressed again and wondered if he had made a mistake. Something he didn't do often, but this – collecting data, mailing and texting other teams out of danger and into safehouses, planning escape routes, that was one thing. Doing the job himself left him with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. "Talk to me, Miles," Shaun said, shaking the feeling away as best as he could.

"What, now I'm allowed?" Desmond mumbled, maybe a little too quietly.

"Don't worry, that's just to stay awake," the historian told him flatly. "Either that or I can slap you in the face every now and then to make sure you haven't passed out."

"You'd like that, huh? I'll take the talking thing," the assassin-in-training answered and sighed just before breathing in sharply and pressing a hand to his wound. "Shit, what the fuck did you do, Shaun?"


	2. Chapter 2

Shaun let Desmond fall asleep about an hour later. He had given him some more painkillers and was now typing furiously on his phone; texting Rebecca and Lucy, getting them up-to-date while pulling out a map and recent satellite pictures to see where they would get a car. They couldn't stay here and now that Desmond appeared to be sleeping more or less peacefully – hell, he even had parked his head on Shaun's lap and the historian would never let him live that one down – he could map out a route, meeting point and wonder for a total of half a minute why he had chosen to fuck his life up that much. Bloody hell.

But then again, he still loved his job.

Even if it involved dim twats getting shot because they thought it a good idea to play hero and rescue someone from the big bad wolf. Shaun sighed softly and looked at Desmond, running his fingers through the short hair. His chest rose and fell with slow, deep breaths and all in all, it could have been worse. He could have died and Shaun didn't know what he would have done in that case.

The assassin-in-training was fine, however. The wounds would take some time to heal, but he would be fine. He had even talked for a while, mostly about some people he met at work when he had been a bartender; it hadn't mattered, but Desmond had kept talking, staying conscious and that was the most important thing.

Shaun wasn't stupid enough to think that he could actually carry Desmond. The man was too heavy and he himself mostly sat in front of his computer, if he didn't sneak out and ran some miles, climbed things to stay in shape when he had time. Still, he lacked strength for that and he wasn't sure if that would be a good idea anyway, considering the possibility for Desmond's torso wound to open again.

"Get up you lazy twat," the historian woke him and gently pushed his shoulder.

"Mm," was all he got as a response. Desmond turned his head and rubbed his cheek on Shaun's thigh. "Five minutes …"

Hadn't Desmond been the one complaining about appropriate touches? "Five minutes my arse, Miles," Shaun tried again and flicked his ear.

The novice flinched, pain seemed to seep through and he was back in the land of the living with a cry muffled in Shaun's trousers.

"Stop drooling on my clothes, you have already ruined almost everything," the historian complained, not really being serious but not wanting to be too friendly, either. That dim idiot didn't deserve that. He eyed the bloody hoodie and the t-shirt, his own vest with Desmond's blood on it and figured he wouldn't have worn it after that anyway.

"Ugh," Desmond said with his sharp-witted intelligence. "The fuck, Shaun?"

"We need to get out of here," Shaun explained to him. "They found us on the street, they can find our cover. I already informed Lucy and Rebecca and we're going to get a car and drive to the next meeting point. Got that?"

"'s long as I don't … can't drive. No car, only bikes." Shaun would call everyone a genius who could make sense of this half-mumbled, half-sighed words even he had problems making out. And understanding them once he did.

"I'd already be impressed if you were able to spell car right now," the historian told Desmond and nudged his shoulder to get him into a half-upright position which hopefully didn't hurt that bad. "Come on, no time for cuddling, Miles."

Shaun finally managed to pull him up on his feet. He could still hear the rain patter on the window and hoped it was a good enough cover to get to the nearest car. Desmond still couldn't walk properly and looked like he would pass out any second. The pain was far off any scale ever invented, Shaun knew that, and he couldn't help but be a little jealous. He hadn't managed to be that quiet or accepting when he had been shot that one time. Neither when Rebecca had made him watch 'Full House' for hours with her.

They went into the other direction and the historian was glad he didn't have to use the hidden blade still tied around his arm, nor the SIG Sauer. They even made it to a car, a white Ford, relatively in one piece. Him, yeah, he was okay, but Desmond seemed to pass out as soon as he hit the back seat. Which was for the better, Shaun mused as he ripped the cables out and jump-started the old car. A short text to Lucy that they were on their way followed and then he drove off and out of the city as fast as he could without getting noticed. Desmond laid in the back and the historian heard him wince now and then when he drove over a particularly bumpy part of the road.

*

Their next hideout was three cities to the south, not mentioned in any of their official lists for backup safehouses for they had a special list for actual hideouts filed away in between some tax refunds. Faked, obviously. This city was a lot smaller than the last one, really just a big village with a post office and a supermarket and the hideout consisted of a small cabin near the woods with a kitchenette and a bathroom.

Desmond was alive and pretty high on painkillers, so he didn't protest much as Shaun parked the stolen car in the middle of nowhere and had Lucy pick them up while Rebecca set up the technical stuff.

"What the hell happened?" she asked while she helped Shaun to get Desmond out of the car.

Of course the historian had texted her about Desmond's injuries, but he guessed she wanted to hear it from him in person. "He said the shopkeeper was a Templar," Shaun explained and gestured to the assassin-in-training with his free hand. "Half a minute later, we were surrounded by six others and he just had to hog two bullets meant for me." And if his tone was bitter and full of accusation, he didn't care.

"Jesus," Lucy sighed and shook her head. She looked like she wanted to say something but didn't, just got into the van and drove them to the cabin.

Shaun had to re-tell the whole story again when they pulled Desmond into the cabin and Rebecca saw what state he was in. He knew she was probably just worried, but that didn't make it less annoying. When he glanced at his watch, he noticed that it had only been about four hours since Desmond had been shot and he was already done with this shite. And he wanted a cigarette – fuck quitting, he needed one right now. But there wasn't a way Lucy would let one of them out the cabin, so he was stuck pacing up and down and looking at Desmond whom had been laid down onto his sleeping bag and still looked a lot paler than he was supposed to.

Shaun couldn't eat or sleep and so he was left with the first watch when Lucy and Rebecca went to sleep. Which had him sitting in front of the computer with nothing to do for about four more hours. And then the guilt kicked in.

Because if he hadn't been so stubborn, all that would have happened was that Desmond would have been caught – worst case scenario – or made it back to their safehouse to tell them to pack up and run again – best case scenario. No bullet in his body, no Shaun with that hidden blade and a gun putting out Abstergo's people, no nothing. Just as it usually was. The historian took out the bullet he had pulled out of Desmond's body earlier. Why he had taken it with him, he had no idea. That stupid thing was the reason for all their current worries, for Desmond's state being on and off critical and Shaun being unable to do more than feel guilty and watch the entrance.

"Shaun …?" he heard Desmond's voice, soft and quiet, when his watch was about to be over.

He turned around only to see that stupid idiot trying to get up. The historian was next to him immediately and pushed him down with gentle force. "Stay still," he hissed, "I didn't pull that stupid bullet out for you to rip open the wound and bleed to death, got that?"

"Charming as always," Desmond whispered and looked around warily. "Where are we anyway?"

Shaun explained what had been going on while Desmond was half high, half passed out the last couple of hours. Again. Maybe he should have recorded it the first time. Desmond seemed to calm down after that and endured Shaun's examination of his wounds silently. Nothing had opened again and the blood that had seeped through the bandage on his torso wasn't much and had dried already.

"Shit," Desmond managed when he pulled himself up on his forearms and looked at his body. Shaun had pulled down his t-shirt again and the hoodie was open, although the blood stains on both clothes were more than noticeable, even with only the dim light of the computer to illuminate the room. "I liked that hoodie."

"That's because you have a poor taste," Shaun told him and patted him on the non-injured leg. "You're going to be fine, though. Try not to move too much."

As the historian wanted to stand up again to put the rest of his watch shift behind himself, Desmond grabbed him by the arm. "Thanks," he said after a moment, almost too quietly for Shaun to understand. He looked down and saw Desmond looking back with something he could be imagining, but he was pretty sure the other man had a faint smile on his lips. "For not letting me down, I mean. Wouldn't have been a fun talk with Vidic. Like, 'hey, sorry for running away, please don't shoot me'."

"I highly doubt there would have been much talking involved." Shaun highly doubted there would have been anything more than endless sessions in the Animus until they had the location of the Apple and then a shot in the head. "Now, if you could let go of me, my shift isn't over yet."

"Sure." Desmond let go of his arm finally. "And Shaun?"

"What, Desmond?"

"You owe me some cuddling." Desmond fidgeted with the zipper of his hoodie and looked away when he saw Shaun watching.

The historian couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips when he sat down and faced the computer again. "I've got half an hour left. Try not to die until then, would you?"

*

Desmond woke to rustling and something shifting beside him. He couldn't say what time it was or how much time had passed since he went back to sleep again. He felt dizzy and all in all not very well. The only thing that held a small resemblance to this situation was the last time he had had a drink with that one customer in New York, the one who came in Fridays during happy hour and made his life miserable with ordering shots for the both of them. Desmond had woken on the bathroom floor – his own, fortunately – covered in puke and with a hangover he would remember forever. Unlike the events that led to said hangover.

The painkillers helped a little, though. His head felt a little lighter and not like his brain wanted to explode. Would have been an awful mess to clean up. Lucy would have kicked his ass into next week probably. And Shaun …

Desmond opened his eyes when the shifting and rustling stopped and remembered that promise he had gotten out of the other man a while ago. Faintly, like it had been days since they last spoke, but Shaun wore the same white button-up he had when Desmond had been shot, blood slowly drying on his sleeves. Desmond hadn't gotten out of his clothes, either, and he mused they both would have to deal with a cold in a couple of days.

Until he felt the cover of his sleeping bag being dragged away from him, then an arm around his waist, just beneath the shot wound and something like a blanket – no, another sleeping bag – on top of him again.

"Why are you awake?" Shaun's quiet voice made it's way to is ears.

Desmond looked at him sideways and couldn't help but smile. The historian looked so different without his glasses, almost exhausted, tired. Like a normal human being instead of Satan's snarky Second in Command. Not that the ex-bartender had ever taken him seriously. Okay, maybe he was a bit intimidating, but like hell he cared about that right now. Instead, he tried to remember what Shaun just had said. Desmond failed; the weight of Shaun's arm around him and his warm body felt too good. So he just mumbled something along the lines of "stay like this", tilted his head so he could nuzzle his cheek against Shaun's shoulder and go back to sleep. Maybe getting shot had been one of his better ideas.


End file.
